Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
I rise slowly, adjusting to this new life one careful movement at a time. The shower in the en-suite bathroom is a luxurious affair, with multiple jets and steam options I don't fully understand. The towels are thick, soft, absurdly expensive. Everything in this house speaks of wealth carefully applied, luxury without ostentation.
Dressed in another of the outfits that mysteriously appeared in the closet—casual but perfectly tailored to my body—I make my way toward the kitchen, drawn by the scent of coffee and something baking.
I don't expect to find Gabriele there, sleeves rolled up, dusting flour from his hands. The domesticity of the scene stops me in the doorway, momentarily speechless.
He looks up, catching my surprise. "Good morning."
"You bake?" I don't mean to sound quite so astonished.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. "Occasionally. My grandmother insisted it was a necessary skill."
"Your grandmother sounds like a remarkable woman."
"She was." He gestures toward a fresh pot of coffee. "Help yourself."
I move to the counter, hyperaware of his presence as I pour a cup. The kitchen feels both spacious and intimate, morning light streaming through windows that frame the ocean beyond.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks, sliding a tray of something that looks like pastry into the oven.
"Yes, actually. Better than I expected." I take a sip of coffee—perfectly brewed, of course. "And you?"
"Well enough."
I'm not sure I believe him. There's a stillness about him this morning, a watchfulness that suggests a mind working overtime. He looks rested enough, but there's something in his eyes—a distance, a calculation.
"What are you making?" I ask, nodding toward the oven.
"Sfogliatelle."
"Another one of your grandmother's recipes?"
"Sì."
It's my first time to hear him speak Italian. It's just one word, but I like it. Enough to have my toes curl hard.
"I'll need to remember to thank her when we meet in heaven."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It must be nice to be so assured of salvation."
"It's a free gift," I say lightly. "You just have to accept it."
Mm.
I let it go, knowing that this is one of those things I mustn't push. It's a gentle dance we're doing, this careful exchange of small truths, and it feels too delicate to rush.
Instead, I move to the windows, gazing out at the ocean beyond. The storm has left everything washed clean, the sky an impossible blue, the water below glittering like crushed diamonds.
"I can't get over how beautiful this place is."
"It serves its purpose." His voice is closer than I expected, and I turn to find him standing beside me, his own gaze directed outward. "The isolation provides security."
"Is that all you see when you look at it? A security feature?"
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, at the directness of my question. "No," he admits after a moment. "Not all."
He doesn't elaborate, and I don't press. Instead, we stand side by side, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. There's something peaceful about sharing silence with him, this quiet morning moment suspended between the chaos of yesterday and the uncertainty of tomorrow.
The timer chimes, breaking the spell. Gabriele moves to retrieve the pastries, and I return to my coffee, settling on a stool at the kitchen island.
"So..." I look at him ruefully. "I really don't know what to do with my time."
Dark eyes gleam at me in amusement. "Would you prefer a schedule? '8 AM: Breakfast. 9 AM: Avoid assassination. 10 AM: Coffee break'?"
The unexpected flash of humor catches me off guard, and I can't help the laugh that escapes me.
"I like that."
"What?"
"The sound of your laugh."
"Oh." I fight off a blush. Who knew former mob bosses could be such a flirt?
Gabriele places a pastry on a plate and slides it toward me. "Try it."
The sfogliatelle is still warm, the shell crisp and flaky, the filling sweet but not cloying. I make an appreciative sound that's embarrassingly close to a moan, and Gabriele's eyes darken slightly.
"Good?" he asks, his voice a shade deeper than before.
"Incredible." I take another bite, savoring the complex flavors. "Your grandmother would be proud."
We eat in companionable silence, the pastries disappearing quickly. I'm licking sugar from my fingers when I catch Gabriele watching me, his gaze intent in a way that makes my skin prickle with unfamiliar heat.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"You enjoy simple pleasures," he observes. "Without restraint or pretense."
I'm not sure if it's a compliment or an observation. "Is that a bad thing?"
"I find it refreshing, actually."
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I'm not ready to name. I look away first, gathering our plates as an excuse to move, to break whatever spell was building.
"We should discuss practicalities," Gabriele says as I rinse the dishes. "Your safety, your training, how we present ourselves to the world."
Reality crashes back in. This isn't a romantic honeymoon, a getting-to-know-you period between newlyweds. This is a strategic alliance, a marriage of protection.